


A little ring story

by Tal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Betrayal, British Politics, Confessions, Elections, Government, Implied Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Memories, Mycroft's Ring, POV First Person, Party, Waiters & Waitresses, ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:18:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tal/pseuds/Tal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I squeezed his arm. It would be the worst mistake in my then short career in the British Government, losing me our good nation's trust, invaluable secret information and nearly costing me my job. This is not a story, not a memoire, it's a confession and one that will not be included in the files to be read fifty years after my death.”</p><p>Mycroft will always wear that ring, as a reminder of this and final proof that caring is never an advantage. </p><p>A little ring story, something that might have happened. From Mycroft's POV, no romance, no sentimentalisation. Because it's Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of 3 - where a meeting takes place.
> 
> Letting me know if you like it, encourages me to continue. ;)

I was young once. It's hard to imagine, I'm sure, but I was. Young and foolish. Impressionable. Eager. Wishing nothing more than to be someone of importance in this world. To make a name for myself, to earn my place, to matter the cost. 

I was at a... function one might say, the details of which I shall not bore you with. I had been invited, as it was one of the Tory parties before the elections and my first connection to the Government was through the Conservatives. They are invariably tedious, but they serve their purpose. I am refering to the parties as well as the politicians who attend them. Politicians are petty by nature and elections have never succeeded to capture my attention. It's a game of puppets trading places, where is the intruige in that? But at the time I needed their support and so I found myself obliged to attend. 

I went, grudgingly, to make the connections I needed to make to get on in the world. I introduced myself to those who mattered, mingled and chatted. I laughed at jokes the humour in which I have yet to discover and nodded solemnly to problems that I couldn't care less about. But I was young then, and I was able to sustain an façade of interest for no longer than about an hour, after which I found myself sitting on a stool at the bar, tapping my fingers mindlessly on the glass of whiskey that had been poured for me. 

I was miles away, deep in thought, when a voice woke me. “My condolances,” the voice commented, the timbre solemn enough to mean the words. 

I looked up and must have looked a mixture of surprise and disgust. It was one of the waiters, standing on the other side of the bar, pouring wine into new glasses on a tray, readying himself for a new round. “Sorry, not my place. I forget.” 

I shook my head and waved away his comment off lightly, accepting his apology, before going back to my thoughts. I was miles away once more, before curiosity eventually got the better of me. His words reminded me of Sherlock, whose seemingly random comments were always founded on a series of deductions. “What makes you say that? 'My condolances'? I hardly look _that_ distraught.” I can't say I expected a founded answer. 

“Well... your ring.” He hesitated, but spoke eventually. “You've obviously lost some weight in recent weeks but that ring still doesn't quite fit you. If it had been yours you would have widened it when you gained weight. You haven't, which suggests you've only recently started wearing it. It's definitely a wedding ring, but it's an old model, no one buys wedding rings like that anymore. Family piece, I'd say. You're looking, well, not distraught, but definitely very glum, so I assume he passed recently. Grand-father, an uncle?” 

He was correct in all save his final deduction. “It was my father's.” 

“Really?” He wrinkled his nose. “Isn't that a bit weird? Doesn't your mother- oh. Your _mother_ passed away. Sorry.” A smile escaped me; he was apologizing for the faulty deduction, not the parent's passing. 

He was right, if nudged to the right answer a little. I started wearing the ring a few weeks ago. It had been my fathers, but it was my mother's recent passing that lead me to wear it. 

The reason for this, I should note, was not a sentimental one, but purely a practial one. A wedding ring stops people from prying, and those whom it doesn't stop, it can easily discourage. A wedding ring is the dead-pan solution to the sort of attention I don't care for. Married, widower, whatever people make of me will be the answer. It also makes one come across as a family man, and those things matter in this world we inhabit. 

This, naturally, I did not convey. I confessed instead that my glum demeanour had more to do with the party than my grief. 

“Well, loose a few more stone and I think that'll look perfect on you,” he complimented with a smile as he finished pouring the glasses. I answered with a smile of my own. 

I went back to my whiskey, and the thought I had earlier abandoned. “Not married then?” He asked, and it was obvious that he was only half-joking. His smile took a turn to the more insinuating; the underlying meaning quite apparent. 

I should explain that I'm entirely unlike my brother in certain matters. I don't see the point of self-castigation, of passing up on life's simple pleasures. I find no harm in enjoying them, on occassion. My brother would make a comment about my weight here, and my incapacity to leave a plate of scones untouched on a tea trolley. As so often is the case, this reveals more about my brother's inner workings than it does about me. His frame of reference can be quite limiting. I _can_ leave a plate of scones untouched on a tea trolley, by the way, but that is entirely beside the point here. We're not talking of scones,. But my brother – unless the word was spelled out for him – would fail to see this. 

When the waiter smiled at me, I knew exactly what he was after. Now, as I've said, life's simple pleasures are meant to be enjoyed. But life's pleasures are _not_ meant to be endured, rithing uncomfortably against shelves packed with cleaning materials, in the broom cupboard of a five star hotel. It simply will not do. 

I excused myself and left. I might have a libido, but I do _not_ let it rule me.


	2. A furthering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of ? - where a meeting is furthered.
> 
> Letting me know if you like it, encourages me to continue. ;)

We met a few more times after that, as the elections neared and the parties were held in that same hotel every time. We got to chatting, which is not something I often indulge in. He was a most intelligent and remarkable young man and a far more interesting conversation partner than most of the people that attended the functions. He had a talent for deduction, and though it was harldy a match for my own abilities in that respect, it was impressive in its own right. I asked him why he had become a waiter, and he went into great detail about the beauty of the business. I found it remarkable, and yes, I will admit that in a way, I found it admirable.

I said nothing of my own work, of course, but I enjoyed our talks thoroughly. It was nice to be able to sit back for a while, without the need to impress or to say the right things to the right people. It was relaxing. Of course, I should have known that that was exactly why it was so dangerous.

The third time we met, he looked me in the eye. “I'm going to do something very crass. Please forgive me if I'm out of line, but er...” He didn't finish his sentence, but slid me a key attached to a bulky key-chain. Room 231 of that very hotel. “I take it you're not a 'quicky between the coats' type of man. Please don't tell me I read you wrong.”

He read me right. I took the key and left. It was really all the answer he required.

This night became the first of a series of entirely different type of meetings, the details of which I most certainly will not divulge here. It is not _that_ sort of confession. 

As a rule, I did not stay afterwards. We did what we did, after which I dressed and left. He would remain in bed, sheets poorly covering his body, smiling suggestively and pouting in response my leaving. I never failed to disappoint him. I never considered complying to his request. 

It was the fifth time we met in our clandestine way. The elections would be the next week and it was likely my last visit to the hotel. After our meeting, I rose to get dressed, but he hurriedly moved to sit on top of me, taking my wrists in his hands and pinning me down onto the bed. “Stay,” he pouted. “Just this once. Just for a bit. I would like you to stay.” The request was gently spoken, and he placed a chaste kiss on my forehead. 

As it was my likely last time here, I did. 

I fell half asleep then, his body pressed to mine, my arm holding him lightly. It was in this half-slumber that I made the worst mistake in my then short career in the British Government; I squeezed his arm. At the time I hadn't even realised I had. It wasn't until much later, when I retraced my steps, that I realized what I had done.


	3. An end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part three of three - where Mycroft is defeated

It was just the squeeze of an arm. Such a small movement, such great and devastating consequences. 

The post-electoral party never came, because all waiters had been taken from their homes in their sleep, abducted, and tortured for money and information. We received a letter first, to which we did not respond. A photograph followed and after only a few days the news received video-footage they showed warning that it could be shocking to the viewers. 

I was at the office and it took quite a lot not to drop the cup of coffee I was holding. A tortured man appeared before my eyes. It was the waiter I had spent five evenings with. 

I was in no position of power at the time, but I've always had my ways and my connections. I cannot go into detail as to what information I passed on in return for his safety – this is a secret I will take to the grave – and what sum of money was transferred to the organisation in question. I am not proud of either. 

I was assured that all men and women were returned safely and though I hesitated at first, I tried to contact him shortly after his return. I wished to apologise. I wished his forgiveness. 

It wasn't until I called him that I realized what had truly happened. The number he had given me was not in service, the home address he had given to the hotel was not his. In fact, as far as the British Government is concerned, this man did not exist.

I had been played. He had found that one weaknesses and he had used it. The squeeze had been taken for what it was; a sign of affection. A sign that I cared, and that I would do the utmost to help him. 

I put the safety of one man before the safety of the nation. 

The ring reminds me of this, my mistake, as it was the first thing that got us to talking. I wear it as a constant reminder; caring is never an advantage.


End file.
